


these are the hands of fate (you're my achilles heel)

by lavenderandthyme



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, F/M, Multi, Natasha has feelings, OT3 if you squint, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Steve just loves her, You really have to squint for the Steve/Bucky, romanogers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 12:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19107016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderandthyme/pseuds/lavenderandthyme
Summary: She had mentioned the diner, and more specifically a hankering she had for their strawberry milkshakes, something which seems like the most unlikely thing for Natasha Romanov to have a hankering after, but at the same time seems so acutely Natasha it’s like it’s one of her main personality traits. He idly traces her little doodle of a cherry in the top corner, and wonders if she can tie a knot with the cherry stem on her tongue, he’d be surprised if she couldn’t, there’s not many things she can’t do.-or - Natasha sends Steve some postcards, and Bucky sends his love, albeit, unconventionally, at first.





	these are the hands of fate (you're my achilles heel)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, me again!
> 
> Thank you so much for the support on my last one-shot! It was truly more than I ever could've hoped for. 
> 
> This honestly wasn't intended to become an 8k actual proper storyline, but it just sort of happened, so I went with it.
> 
> I really love the idea of Steve/Natasha/Bucky and definitely think i need to explore it in more depth at some point in the foreseeable future.
> 
> The title is taken from State of Grace by Taylor Swift.  
> Enjoy!

It’s funny, Steve thinks to himself, as he places the most recent postcard, from Budapest this time, on top of the others. Natasha had left, he’d seen it with his own eyes as she’d gotten into her car and driven off, but most days it was like her presence was stronger, brighter, than ever. 

His apartment was still a mess, from all the shooting that had gone on, but he hadn’t gotten around to moving yet. He thinks that some part of him wants Natasha to be able to find him when she comes back, not that he was sure she wouldn’t be able to find him even if he was on the other side of the country. 

On the fairly battered, bullet struck coffee table in front of him, sat a quickly growing pile of various things she had sent him in the past two and a half weeks or so: postcards, notes scribbled on the back of ripped pieces of paper, letters, torn out newspaper articles, even drawings, and it was so uncharacteristic for the Natasha he met two years ago, maybe not so much for the Natasha he knew now, but still he couldn’t help but smile at the utter stupidity of it all. He thinks maybe that’s the point she’s making, because although she would rather cut off her own tongue than admit it out loud, she’d grown fond of him, attached even, enough at least to think about his state of mind, even from thousands of miles away.  

His eyes fall on the note she’d sent last Tuesday, her handwriting jotted on the back of a torn up postcard from The Louvre, rushed, something offhand about a diner she’d been to in Brooklyn, on the corner of Washington and Atlantic, just across the street from Prospect Heights and in turn, Prospect Park. He knew exactly where she’d meant, immediately – (he remembered when it had been a pharmacy and, before that, an empty corner, but that was irrelevant really, to her note), she had mentioned the diner, and more specifically a hankering she had for their strawberry milkshakes, something which seems like the most unlikely thing for Natasha Romanov to have a hankering after, but at the same time seems so acutely Natasha it’s like it’s one of her main personality traits. He idly traces her little doodle of a cherry in the top corner, and wonders if she can tie a knot with the cherry stem on her tongue, he’d be surprised if she couldn’t, there’s not many things she can’t do.  

The thing is, Steve knows exactly who Nat is when they’re on a mission, when they’re fighting together. He knows which way she’s going to move, which leg she’s going to kick, which way she’s going to shoot, by the sound of her breathing, the flutter of her eyelashes, sometimes even before she does - but just the same, he has almost no idea about who Natasha is outside of that environment. He has no idea if she is just being gloriously unsubtle about wanting him to take her for strawberry milkshakes or just writing down any little passing thought, anything she thinks he might like. The latter seems most likely, because honestly, he doesn’t think Natasha could be unsubtle if she tried, and why would she want him to take her for strawberry milkshakes, anyhow? 

He’d made a note of it anyway, even wrote his own reminder and stuck it on the fridge,  _take Nat for strawberry milkshakes._  He traced his own doodles of two cherries, joined at the stem and sighed, he’d grown attached too at some point, then. Dangerous.  

The notes come for the next two weeks and then stop, suddenly, for 10 days or so. Steve’s worried, at first, but then remembers who Natasha is and it drops a little to just mild concern. The radio silence doesn’t last for long, anyway, it never does with Nat. She once described herself, in a stolen,  _borrowed,_ Chevy truck - in Montana of all places, as an elastic band, stretching away and then pinging back, never too far, never truly disconnected.  

She sends him a note on the back of a picture card of the Colosseum, written in black ink and smudged, just a little, at the edges. 

 _‘I keep waiting for you to write back, Rogers,’_ the ink is faded, and he can imagine some of it had transferred onto the side of her hand, staining the skin. Her handwriting looped  through his name and  veered  off slightly diagonally, ‘- _but then I remember you have no idea where I am,’_  

 _Well sure I do,_ he thinks,  _you’re in Italy._ He can visualise her eye roll, he stops thinking. 

‘ _\- I have to admit, it’s quite liberating, being ahead of the game for once’_  

That makes him smile, because Natasha always seems like she’s about 5 steps ahead of everyone else at all times. There’s a gap of a few lines, then - 

‘ _Did you know the Colosseum is thousands of years old, practically a fossil, just like someone else I know. Talk about shared life experience, huh?’_  

The way she writes can be quite off-putting sometimes, at least it was to Steve at first, because it’s like she’s just spoken the words onto the page, and you can hear her saying it, right next to your ear, voice lilting and teasing. There’s a rough doodle of what he can only assume is an olive branch in the top corner this time, the drawing was cartoonish, the lines wiggly and uneven, like she’d drawn it in a car or some sort of moving vehicle, he snorts. 

Sam visits the next weekend, takes one look at the spread of postcards and notes winding from his coffee table, to the fridge, even littering the dining table, and falls into a fit of sniggers. He practically drags Steve to the nearest bar, pulling 3 beers in front of him out of nowhere, and looks at him for a minute, eyebrows raised. He thinks maybe he should’ve called Tony instead, thinks again, and retracts that statement in his mind just as quickly as he conceived it in the first place. Sam will do. Steve downs the beers, one after the other, flat, and turns back to Sam, who looks slightly less unimpressed as he did a moment ago. He sips on his own, first, beer and leans against the bar. 

“Do you think she’ll come back?”   

His tone is light, in the way someone speaks when they’re curious, yet Steve can still tell he’s still suspicious, like he doesn’t quite trust Natasha yet, Steve doesn’t blame him, honestly. She’s not exactly an open book.  

“Of course, it’s Natasha, she never misses a chance at a dramatic entrance.” 

 

* 

It’s funny at just how right Steve is, but Natasha’s flair for the dramatics, quite literally now, is common knowledge, so when he hears the sound of his living room window open and thump of a duffle hitting the floor, he allows himself to be a little annoyed at himself for not expecting this. He should’ve definitely seen it coming from a mile off, at least.  

It had been 5 months since Natasha had left D.C, and while Steve had wondered many a time how she might choose to reappear in their lives, finding her standing in his kitchen, covered in her own blood, fresh and dried, was bottom of the list at how he had expected to see her again. He turns on the light of the kitchen, and she snaps her head up to look at him, eyes wide and unfocused, his breath catches. There's a quickly growing stain of dark red seeping through the side of her grey t-shirt, just above her hip. Her skin was sallow looking, covered in a sheen of sweat, she almost looks like could be glowing in the artificial light, reflecting off her skin like an angelic aura or something. The air smells metallic, and there’s blood covering her hands, running up her wrists and dried on her neck. 

“Jesus Christ, Natasha,”  

His voice is sharp and he lowers it slightly to a hiss when she jumps a little, conscious of the fact Agent Carter was still living next door, as of last week, though he was pretty certain she wasn’t paid nearly enough to be listening for him at 3am. He realises she’s not being paid for anything anymore, he lets himself go a little, his blood still thrumming with anger. “-Are you insane?” 

“Relax, it’s not as bad as it looks -” her voices tapers off mid-sentence and she takes a sharp inhale, knees shaky underneath her, she steadies herself on the counter behind her. 

“Why the hell are you not at a hospital like a normal person, shitting hell Natasha – what in God’s name were you thinking?” 

He moves towards the sink, snatching the med-kit he stores under there for emergencies, like he knew she’d do this one day. Doesn’t mean he’s any less pissed, relieved she’s alive – just by the looks of it, but pissed. 

“Watch the language, Ca- oh, mother fucker,” her head falls back, her eyes scrunched shut as he peels back her shirt, practically congealed to the feverish skin underneath it at this point, to assess the damage. The knife, and he was guessing it was stab wound from the lack of noticeable bullet and the other visible knife cuts littering her arms and stomach, it had gone in deep by the looks of it. Scarily close to nicking her spine, whoever did this knew exactly where they were hitting, highly trained, frighteningly accurate. Something rings in the back of his mind, he lets out another soft curse. 

“Wasn’t really thinking much, to b’honest with you Steve,” Natasha’s voice is slurred, and her hand falls on his shoulder, squeezing hard, just shy of bruising, one touch of her skin to his and he knows for certain she’s got a fever; a thousand more curses cross his mind. “-all I know, is your old pal, is calling me Natalia and I have not a single clue why, and then he’s stabbing me.” 

He drops her t-shirt in shock, eyes snapping up to her own unfocused ones. 

“Bucky?” 

She nods, gasping and squeezing his shoulder again before slumping forward, unconscious. He picks her up and places her on his sofa, not caring about the blood getting onto his cushions right now, he thinks about Sharon again for a moment, she’d been an undercover nurse for months, perhaps she’d be able to heal Natasha better, but decides against it in the end, he’s perfectly capable of fixing her up himself. Not that it wouldn’t have been a hell of a lot easier if she’d just gone to an actual medical centre.  

He rips her shirt off as gently as possible, paling at the amount of bloodless for a moment before swallowing down the nausea and getting to clean her up. It takes him about half an hour, and she needs a few stitches on the main wound, bastard will leave another nasty scar, but the rest of the cuts thankfully aren’t as deep as he first thought.  

He sits back on his heels when he’s managed to stop everything from bleeding. Natasha’s blood was now covering his own hands, staining up his wrists, making him shudder a little. Her skin was still clammy and sweaty against the back of his hand, but the fever would probably, hopefully, break while she slept. He moves her to his bed, and he waits. 

 

* 

 

The first time she wakes, it’s with a gasp, frightened eyes, and a hand at Steve’s throat. She mumbles a string of Russian, and her eyes are so terribly frightened but utterly blank at the same time. She holds his gaze for a few moments, hand still at his throat, but loosening slightly as the fog clears from her mind. She starts to hyperventilate a little, gasping out another hurried rush of Russian before her eyes roll back into her head and she passes out again. She starts to shiver a little, he tightens the five or so blankets he has piled around her, like a cocoon. Steve is sure, if it wasn’t for the serum, his neck would be all shades of purple. He doesn’t move any further away, although he knows he probably should. 

He can’t stop thinking about her eyes, green and cat-like in the early morning light, but so like Bucky’s. 

 

* 

 

When she wakes the second time, 2 days after she breaks in, her eyes are clearer and her thoughts are moving at a normal pace. She looks around, disorientated for a second before she takes in her surroundings properly, and the cotton at the front of her mind melts away.  _Steve._  

She can hear him speaking in the other room, his voice low and indistinguishable through the wall. She gets up slowly, wincing when she feels the wound on her side, and pulls on the shirt, (read dress, by the way it falls below her mid-thigh – damn super serum), waiting folded at the end of the bed. There's blood, hers for once, crusted in her hair and stuck under her nails, and she’s sure she must look a state, if her sweat stiff underwear is anything to go by, but moves towards Steve's voice anyway. She slips silently through his apartment, so much so he doesn't hear her, remaining facing the window in the kitchen, phone pressed against his ear as he says his goodbyes to whoever’s on the other end.  

Natasha stops by his coffee table, where a pile of all the things she’d sent him sit, and she lets out a puff of air through her nose, finally catching his attention. He snaps around to look at her, placing the phone down on the kitchen counter. His eyes drop to the shirt, his presumably, and something shifts in his gaze. She blinks at him, and he moves to grab her a glass of water, pushing it towards her without a word. 

She drops the postcard she’d been thumbing back on the coffee table; it was one she’d sent from Athens, days after she’d left, right when she couldn’t get his damn face out of her mind. 

She gulps down the water in a few mouthfuls, eying him warily when he continues to look at her silently, filling the glass up for her again. Speechlessness was not a good sign with Steve Rogers, it meant he was angry, seething beyond the point of wanting to punch things. 

“So,” she says, finishing the second glass but keeping it in her hands, forcing him to look at her. “- how long was I out?” 

His jaw clenches, and when he moves his hands off his sink there are dents from where he’s been gripping it. She raises her eyebrows and takes a small step back, hackles raising in warning. 

“Are you kidding me right now, Natasha?” Oh, so he’s  _angry,_ angry. She takes another step back, minuscule, really, but steels her gaze at him as she does. 

“You can’t just show up here, bleeding out on my kitchen floor, with no explanation and expect me to let it fly, Nat!” 

His use of the nickname is like a white-hot steel rod being pushed through her stomach. She crosses her arms, and raises her voice right back, never one to back down.  

“Well I didn’t know where else to go, Steve!” she takes a deep breath, drops her gaze for a moment before meeting his eyes, ferociously blue and looking straight through her, her voice drops. “I don’t know who to trust anymore, just you.”  

His eyes soften and he lets out a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face before walking over to her, gently taking the glass out of her hands and drawing her in for a albeit tentative, but fierce, hug. He holds her at shoulders length after a few seconds, eyes dropping to her side where his shirt covers the biggest bandage. She tips her chin in affirmation, and he lifts up the corner of his shirt and peeling back the bandage to look at it. His fingers are cold when they touch her skin, and she shivers a little.  

The wound didn’t look comfortable by any means, but it wasn't infected, he lets out a low exhale and puts the bandage back in place, pulling his hand away. He drops the shirt and looks at her for a second, running his arms down the back of her arms almost habitually, before turning away again. She shivers again. 

“There’s towels in the bathroom for you.”  

 

* 

 

He waits another two and half days, and then he loses his patience, turning to her in the middle of a  _Friends_ episode that neither of them are really watching, and asking her -  

“What can you remember exactly about what happened, the other night?” 

She freezes around her forkful of chow-mien, and puts the fork back into the container with a little sigh, her eyebrows furrow a little as she, visibly, traces through her memories. 

“I can remember fragments, really, guess I have the fever to thank for that, huh,” her smile is forced, and he just continues to stare at her. Her eyes drop, and her face falls blank.  

“I remember it was Barnes, and I remember telling you, but I was telling the truth, Steve, honest-” she takes a quick inhale, biting the side of her thumb, the only nervous tell she had that he was sure of. “-I don’t know why he was calling me Natalia, I sure as hell don’t remember meeting him before, but I think there may be a lot of things that have happened in my life that I don’t remember.” 

He lets out a sigh, dropping his head into his hands. 

“Shit, Natasha.” 

“I’m sorry, Steve, I know it’s not what you want to hear.”  

“No, no it’s okay, you’re okay,” she’s looking at him the same she had in Sam’s spare bedroom, frightened and desperate for something, anything for her to hold on to. He reaches towards her, wrapping a stray strand of her hair round his finger before letting it drop, watching the auburn curl bounce in the soft light of the television. “-do you think your memories will come back, now you’ve come into contact with him?” 

Her eyebrows furrow in thought for a second, and then she exhales slowly, shaking her head a little, her eyes apologetic. 

“I think,” she bites her lip a little. “-I think that if they were going to come back, they would’ve by now. I had some weird ass dreams though, under the fever, so they may eventually.”   

She takes a mouthful of her chow-mien, stabbing at the noodle with a little too much force, and freezes again. 

“Did I try to choke you?” 

He laughs at her then, breathy and light. 

“Don’t worry about it, you were practically unconscious, it was barely a squeeze.” 

She narrows her eyes and points her fork at him, but he can see her body relax again.  

“Yeah, well I'm conscious now, Rogers.” 

She smiles at him for a moment, then her face clears again, and she drops her eyes back to the food containers.  

“There’s a way to potentially get rid of the memory block, though, it’s how they got me coherent when I first came to S.H.E.I.L.D.” 

He senses her apprehension, and speaks tentatively. 

“Is that something you’d want to do?” he steals a bean sprout, trying to appear casual, he knows she’ll see through it instantly. Her eyes narrow at him. “-now you be honest with me.” 

The corners of her mouth turn up a little at her words being repeated back to her, but they drop after a moment.  

“Honestly, I don’t think I do,” his heart drops a little, but he nods, turning away and reaching for his kung pao. “-but I’m the only chance you’ve got, Rogers, so I’ll do it, for you.” 

He starts to protest but she stops him quietly, her voice practically drowned out by the laugh track on the forgotten TV. 

 “Just let me do this.”  

 _I owe you_  

He hears her voice, clear as day, what feels like a million years ago right in the middle of S.H.I.E.L.D falling to pieces. He remembers realising that that was the first time Natasha was showing him everything, being completely vulnerable, he doesn’t take it for granted. He doesn’t try to fight her again, only nods, her face relaxes almost instantly and she nods back, turning back to the TV, episode remembered again.  

He realises that Natasha will probably never get over this constant cycle of owing and evening out, a back and forth that he now knew to be the decision maker behind all of her choices. Everyone needs something to keep them sane, keep them the grounded, god knows they do more than ever, and this was Natasha’s.  

He doesn’t ask, what it is they do to get the memories back. She’s gone when he wakes up the next morning, and when she returns, three days later, tear tracks on her cheeks, breath shaky and eyes unfocused, he still doesn’t ask. She doesn’t tell him. 

 

* 

 

They wait a month and hear nothing, then Sam rings Steve on a Thursday evening to let him know about reports of a man with a metal arm speaking Russian in a town just west of Columbus. Steve must think it’s bad, if he’s been spotted, thinks his mind must be falling apart at the seams.  

 _“Do you need me to come with you?”_  

Sam's voice is breathless, like he’s just come back from a run, Steve can hear the sound of the radio or the TV in the background, tinny through the phone line. He shakes his head before realising Sam can’t see him. 

“Nah, it’s probably best if it’s just me and Nat,” the nickname rolls affectionately off his tongue, Sam snorts and Steve coughs, turning away from where he’s facing her. She’s sitting on the couch, head on her knees, eyes on the TV but spaced out just a little. “-she’s, uh, she’s still not quite herself – I think things are going to get a bit messy, and she doesn’t quite trust you yet. No offence.” 

Sam snorts again, and Steve knows he’s taken no offence. He sighs in relief. 

 _“Let her know the feelings mutual,_ ” he pauses for a moment, breath still a little short down the line,  _“-be careful, Steve, let me know if you change your mind, or things fall to shit– I'm here if they do.”_   

“Take care, Sam – and call your mom” 

 _“Yeah, yeah, I still think she loves you more than me.”_  

They hang up, and Steve turns back to Natasha, but she’s already looking at him, face blank. 

“That Sam?” 

Steve nods, moving towards her to lean on the back of the sofa, arms stretched out in front of him. 

“We’ll leave first thing.”  

He watches her tentatively, but her face remains passive, he sighs, pushing off the back of the sofa to sit down next to her, her eyes follow him, catlike. 

“Where are we going?”  

“Columbus.” 

She blinks at him for a moment, and then promptly grins, feral and frankly, a little terrifying.  

“He’s in  _Ohio?_ Jesus, he really is off the rails, then.”  

She stands up without another word, walking towards his guest room, presumably to pack. He catches her wrist as she passes, not gripping tight enough to hurt, but enough to make her stop. 

“We don’t have to, Nat, if you’re not ready,” 

She smiles at him, fond and tender and the most expressive he’s seen her in weeks, his shoulders relax a little. 

“I’m okay, Steve, promise,” her fingers find his wrist and grip his forearm, pulling him up and towards him. “-come help me pack?” 

He knows she doesn’t need any help, but nods anyway, it’s not often Natasha asks for company, so when it happens, he snatches at the opportunity before it’s even presented, taking advantage of every time she chooses to open another door for him to peek through.  

He falls asleep in the guest room,  _her room_ , at some point, and when he wakes at daybreak, two fully packed duffels sit on the end of the bed, and he can hear her making coffee. He wonders when they became so domestic, wonders if she’s noticed. There's still a dip in her side of the mattress, and when he reaches his hand out to skim across the sheets, he can still feel her warmth, fast cooling, but still there. 

 

* 

 

They drive for about an hour in silence before she sits up in her chair, blinks, looks around for a moment before settling her eyes on him, her eyebrows furrowed gently. 

“Isn’t Sam coming?”  

He turns to look at her, back at the road, and then back to her, her eyebrows raised expectantly.  

“I thought it’d be best if he stayed behind on this one, I know you’re not quite there with him yet,” he sighs a little, gripping the leather of the steering wheel tight. “-and I think it’d be best with, with Bucky, don’t want to scare him off, you know?” 

“Oh, right.” she shivers a little, not from the cold, he thinks, she had the window cracked open next to her and made no move to shut it. She leans back against her chair, propping her feet up on the dash and shooting him her cheekiest grin. 

“Nat,” he all but  _whines_ at her, practically pouting at her as he flips his gaze from the road and back to her. “-please remove your feet from the dash.”  

 She rolls her eyes, but removes them anyway, grin not fading. 

“Who knew Captain America was such a whiner,” she lets out a little yawn, arching her back to try and get comfortable. “-and such a cute one, at that, don’t act like I didn’t see that bottom lip jut out, Rogers, that is prime emotional blackmail content,” 

“Cute, huh?” his own grin is smug this time, flicking her knee playfully.  

“I just threatened to blackmail you, and that is what you pick up on?” she lets out a little laugh, the first he’d heard in weeks, and shakes her head. 

“-God you are such a man.” 

“America’s Righteous Man, baby” he shoots her a wink and tries not to smirk at the smattering of pink that rises on her cheeks, she just shakes her head again, eyes wide, and lets out a contented sigh. 

“America’s Righteous Man, my ass, what does that even mean? You didn’t seem very righteous when you were swearing blind at me the other night.”  

Her tone is teasing, and she’s wearing her own little smug smirk, knowing just how to push at his buttons. He scoffs at her. 

“I was not swearing _blind,_ but so what if I was? You were bleeding out on my kitchen floor, for Christ's sake.” 

Her smile widens, and she mocks his scoff, before shutting her eyes, leaning her head back on the headrest.  

“I was not bleeding out on your kitchen floor,” he raises his eyebrows at her when she peeks open an eye at him, she sniffs.  

“-New game, when was the last time you said fuck?” 

His eyebrows must disappear from his forehead and Natasha actually _giggles,_ she giggles, right in front of him and his blushing cheeks, he tries not to look as shocked as he feels. He’s shocked he doesn’t have whiplash more often.  

“I’m Captain America, I don’t say that word.”  

She has the audacity to giggle at him again, and god if he doesn’t love the sound of it, wishes he could record it and have it play on loop in his head forever. 

“I will get you to say fuck, Steven, if it’s the last thing I do.” 

“Game on, Romanoff, hope you're feeling in the loosing mood.” 

“I never lose, Rogers, ever.”  

Deep down he knows she’s right, because he never could say no to her anyhow, not for anything. 

 

* 

The drive only takes them about six hours in the end, and Natasha sleeps for the last 3, face calm and content, except from the same, gentle furrow between her brows that he has to stop from flattening with his finger every five minutes. 

He pulls up in front of a dodgy looking motel, at least one dodgy enough that won't ask too many questions when Captain America and a Russian-assassin-turned-S.H.I.E.L.D-assassin check in.   

The step out of the car, a pair of dark glasses over Natasha's eyes and duffle slung from her fingers over her shoulder, she shudders for a moment as she takes in their surroundings. 

“God, I fucking  _hate_ Ohio.” 

He snorts at her, taking her bag from her, singling it over his shoulder with his own. 

“What did it ever do to you?” 

She looks at him over the top of her sunglasses, unimpressed. He cracks easily. 

“God, I hate it too, you’re right – I'm sorry” 

She laughs at him, shaking her head a little. He resists the urge to take her hand. 

The room is barely clean, and at least half the blinds are snapped, but it will do. The middle aged guy at the reception, if it could even be called that, didn’t even look at them twice, just handed them a key, a bored but presumptuous look on his face as his eyes flitted between them, lingering on Natasha just a second too long to be innocent, eyes dragging shamelessly up her legs. Steve tries not to smile, knowing that she knows of at least 30 ways to kill him with the things on his desk, but puts his arm around her waist as they walk away just the same, pulling her close to his side. She turns her head into his shirt and speaks through her smile. 

“I thought of 25 ways to kill him with the stapler alone.” 

 He snorts, dropping his arm when they turn the corner, but keeping himself close, stuck in her orbit.  

 

* 

 

The last spotting of Bucky had been about 3 miles from where they were staying, but neither of them felt any rush, knew he was probably waiting for them, or at least Natasha, depending on how much he remembered. He wouldn’t stray far.  

They had dinner at the shabby diner across the street, baseball caps and sunglasses on to avoid any unwanted attention. Natasha remained silent throughout, picking at the fries in front of her, smiling weakly when he kicks her gently, asking her if she’s alright. He could practically taste her unease, despite her quick nod. He thinks about getting her a strawberry milkshake, but decides against it, doesn’t want to ruin them for her by spoiling the associations.  

She doesn’t speak again until much later, when they’re lying next to each other in the bed, lumpy mattress digging into his back. Her voice is quiet, whispered almost, and he has to strain against the whirring of the ancient AC to hear her. 

“Why did you never ask?” 

Steve turns to look at for a moment, she’s lying on her back, eyes on the ceiling, eyelashes fluttering slightly. The neon sign is reflecting through the window, casting yellow light onto half of her face and shoulders, lighting her eyes up topaz, he thinks to himself she’s never looked more beautiful. He breathes in before answering. 

“I figured you’d tell me, when you were ready,” she flicks her eyes to look at him, rolling towards him slightly, into the light more. “I meant what I said, Nat, I trust you.” 

She blinks at him, and then she’s on top of him, quick as lightning, lips brushing his in something far too gentle to be called a kiss, then again harder, her tongue tracing the seam of his lips. He brings one hand up to cup the back of her head, the other sliding into her hair at the side of her face, curling around her jaw. She pulls away, eyes searching his warily, not quite regretfully, though. He almost smiles, but instead flips them over, pinning her down under him, hands braced either side of her head, and leans down, whispering against her lips. 

“Okay?”  

She hums, arching up to wrap her hands around his neck, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips before tipping her head back, pushing her tits into his chest, and baring her neck to him. 

He drops his lips obligingly, nipping down the column of her throat before sucking into the junctures of her collarbones, surging up to swallow the gasps that leave her mouth before moving down the other side. 

“You better not give me any hickey, Rogers.” 

Her tease is punctuated by a high-pitched sound in the back of her throat when he sucks on the point where her neck meets her shoulder, grinning wryly into her neck. She pulls him back up to her mouth, biting at his bottom lip, licking into his mouth when he opens it to her.  

She pulls away when her lungs start to burn and he looks at her, lips swollen and pupils blown, and he thinks he was wrong, that this was the most beautiful he’d ever seen her. He swallows when she runs her hands down his shirt, brushing her fingertips just under and around, and he plays with the hem of her own shirt before dropping a tender kiss to her forehead. She looks at him, blinking out of shock for a moment, before sitting up into him, pulling his shirt up and over his head, letting her eyes wander for a moment, then pulling off her own shirt, throwing it across the room. 

He groans at the sight of her in just her bra, running his finger along the underwire, making her shiver, a soft moan catching in her throat. 

“Fuck, Nat” 

She lets out a shaky laugh almost instantly, leaning up and kissing the corner of his mouth.  

“If all it took was me just taking my shirt off, I would’ve done it months ago.” 

He rolls his eyes, but drops a kiss to her shoulder, moving to sit back on his heels. 

“Hey, where are you going?” 

She pouts a little, arching her back to push her chest up a little, he draws in a shaky breath. 

“We shouldn’t, Nat, you’re not thinking clearly.”  

She sits up instantly, expression flipping as she does, eyes narrowed and scathing. 

“You do not get to tell me whether or not I’m thinking clearly right now, Steve,” she breaths heavily, chest heaving. “I kissed you - I chose to start this, so do not give me that shit.” 

He feels his jaw clench, his own anger creeping in. 

“Would you have done it, if we weren’t here,” She looks at him, stormy, fists clenched in the sheets. “- If we weren't about to find Bucky, who you obviously have some sort of history with, tell me, Natasha, would you have done it.”  

She doesn’t speak, but her answer rings clear in his head, behind the thunderclouds he can see genuine pain, fear even. He softens ever so slightly. 

“I trust you, I meant it, I promise I meant it, but you have to trust me too,” he leans forwards again, always towards her, hand cupping the side of her face. Her fists remain clenched but she leans into him, just the tiniest bit, almost unnoticeably. “I can’t do this until you do,” she smiles weakly, eyes dropping. “- and also, until we’re out of Ohio, I refuse to let our first time be anywhere near this state.” 

She just lets out a little sigh and nods, hands uncurling, mouth turning up at the corners again. 

“I can’t believe you just got cockblocked by the state of Ohio.” 

He groans, lying down and pulling her on top of him and into his neck, arms curled around her waist, dropping a kiss on to her hairline. 

They lie silently for a while, her fingers, ice cold, tracing shapes on his chest. She inhales, and tells him about Bucky, or at least the soldier she now remembers. 

 

* 

 _Natalia can’t remember life before the_ _Re_ _d_ _R_ _oom. She'd always been told that there was nothing before, only what was now, only the next mission in aid of the motherland._  

 _Still, she can’t help it when her mind wanders. Her whole life is made up of echoing corridors and ricocheting gun shots and pointe shoes hitting floors, but there had to be a before. People didn’t just spring up out of the snow, not even here._   

 _There’s snow when she sees the asset for the first time. There had been whispers of the asset for years, but she’d thought they’d just been whispers, silly stories from silly children. It's dark and she’s fifteen, weeks away from graduating. She’s hidden herself in an alcove on the upstairs landing, almost completely hidden from view, the dark covering any angles she may’ve been spotted from._   

 _Out of nowhere several footsteps thunder into the landing, she hears Matron,_ _harsh whispers_ _cutting through the_ _silence as they pass the stairs, moving towards the basement. Natalia leans forwards slightly, clearing her view. Below her, walking through at a rushed pace, frantic almost, is Matron followed by two guards. In between them is a third man, presumably a prisoner by the way he is being dragged along the tiled floor. She doesn’t recognise him, and a sharp gasp leaves her lips when the moon reflects off his steel arm. She falls back into the dark immediately, shivering, but his eyes snap to hers anyway. Even from the distance she can see their piercing colour, like ice in the reflected light from the snow. The guards continue to drag him through, but his eyes don’t leave her, watching her through the darkness. She stays frozen until she can no longer hear Matron’s heels echoing down the hall._   

 _When she next sees him, she’s sixteen, and he looks at her sceptically, eyes narrowed. If he recognises her, he doesn’t say anything. It’s snowing again, and she lets herself get lost in the snowflakes piling up outside the window._   

 _When she_ _turns_ _seventeen, they send them out on a mission together, two days, a drop-in, kill and evacuate. Silent and unseen. They are sitting o_ _n_ _the rooftop in the dark, the beginnings of snowfall falling around them as they wait for their ride_ _back_ _. Natalia has the urge to shiver,_ _but she doesn’t feel cold, the adrenaline still warming her blood._   

 _“What is your name?”_  

 _She breathes in a little sharper than usual when he speaks, his voice is low and she thinks she can hear the slightest trace of an American accent. It strikes her funny, odd._  

 _“Natalia.”_   

 _She is sitting a few steps behind him, curled over her knees, but when he turns to look at her she can see his eyes, blue like the water that comes from the glaciers in the mountains. He shapes her name on his tongue for a moment. She breathes, the mist obscuring her face for a moment, his eyes pierce through._   

 _“What is yours?”_   

 _He stares at her for a moment, eyes clearing ever so slightly, like sea foam._   

 _“James.”_   

 _He doesn’t speak for the rest of the night. Neither does she._   

 _The whispers continue when she returns, only now he’s not the asset, but the_ _Wi_ _nter_ _S_ _olider, on account of there always being snow when he’s spotted, like he’s a seasonal accessory. They must notice her watching him with a little too much curiosity, because the winter she turns eighteen, they take her to the basement, and they steal her memories._  

  _The year the KGB falls and Natalia escapes the Red Room, there’s the heaviest snowfall she’s ever seen, the whole winter long. She risks going back, about a month or so after S.H.I.E.L.D clear her for duty, in the snow. She's not sure exactly why, or what she was e_ _xpecting_ _precisely_ _, closure perhaps, but there was a nagging feeling at the back of her mind that she’d forgotten something, left something behind, frozen in the snow._  

  _There’s nothing left though, only a flattened space where the manor once stood, echoes through the_ _white_ _of what once stood there. She wonders if the whole thing had been a dream. She cups her palm, letting snowflakes accumulate for a minute, watching them turn clear and melt in her hand. Eyes like ice._  

 

 _She leaves, she leaves and never looks back._  

 

 

* 

 

They find Bucky the next morning, sitting calmly, patiently in an abandoned warehouse just outside of town. They try to stay focused on him, watching him cautiously for any signs of violence, but his eyes look clear, and much lighter – lighter than she ever remembered them being. Whatever was left of the soldier that had stabbed Natasha seemed to be gone, punched into the walls by the looks of things around them. His metal arm sits at his side like a deadweight, and Steve realises he's found some way to shut it off, he lowers his shield a little. Bucky blinks at them for a moment, before his eyes settle on Natasha, on the recognition in her eyes, and he smiles. 

 _Eyes like ice,_ now thawed. Sky blue, like Steve’s, she thinks. Like Steve’s but colder, like a February morning. 

She moves to walk towards him, unthinking, possessed almost, but Steve’s voice cuts through, firm and so _Captain America_ she almost scoffs. 

“Nat.”  

She lets out a little sigh, dropping him a small look over her shoulder. The soldier speaks. 

“Your eyes were always so green, like a cat’s in the night. I remember them almost glowing through the dark, do you remember now, when I saw you? Your eyes have changed, Natalia, you see me now.”  

She flinches just a little at the accent, still heavy around her name, and Steve moves towards her, always towards her, on instinct. James’ eyes flick to Steve’s over her shoulder, smiling at the hand at her waist, gentle. 

“Your eyes are always the same, Rogers, like the sky in mid-July, or the cotton candy at Coney Island, I know you remember.” 

Natasha feels the hand at her waist tighten, pulling her back towards him, she goes willingly. Steve’s voice cracks when he finally speaks. 

“Bucky?” 

“In the flesh.”  

The smirk that fleets across his face is boyish and so  _Bucky_ that Steve shivers, remembering when that smirk used to be for him, it’d work every time. He sees Natasha hesitate, as if more of her mind is clearing, he sees the recognition snap in her eyes, but Bucky’s shallow gasps stop her from chasing it. 

They both look at him, and really look at him for the first time, Natasha notices first - but Steve's never far behind and sees straight after.  

The point where his now redundant arm meets his shoulder is sparking, and there's a dark stain seeping through his shirt, like he’s tried to rip the arm out of his own body. Natasha shivers at the thought. Steve drops his hand from just above her hip, right where her scar sits, still pink and raw, and moves around her towards Bucky, her tone is a warning when she says his name, but she drops it when he reaches him. Steve cups his hand round his jaw, same he did to her hours before, and Bucky leans into it, choking on a sob. Natasha’s mind is screaming at her to run, to leave where she is not wanted, but Steve’s eyes are on her before she can even take a full step back, his eyes wide, panicked.  

“I can’t do this without your help, Nat” 

 _I can’t do this without you._   

She nods, swallowing her fear, and walks towards them. The man she loved first, always, and the man she fell for wholeheartedly. She realises she hasn’t told Steve yet, but the look in his eyes, his constant need to be near her, touching her in some way, makes her think he knows. Reciprocates, even. Their eyes track her as she walks towards them, she sidles past Steve, and as she traces her thumb on Bucky's cheekbone, he smiles weakly, but his eyes are glassy, unfocused. 

“I’m sorry, Natalia, so sorry” 

She smiles, small and shy, but fond all the same. 

“All in the wind now, James, forgotten,” 

His eyes are teary, but that might just be from the pain, they glaze over again, she turns to Steve, slightly breathless. 

“The arm’s connected to his spine, Steve, we have to take him to Tony.” 

Steve nods, his arm dropping to curl round Bucky's neck, affectionate, thumb in the divot of his collarbone. His other hand finds hers, intertwining their fingers. 

“He’s not going to like it, at all.” 

Her smile is wry as she squeezes his hand, hand still tracing the side of Bucky's face, soothing. 

“Yeah, well he owes me.” 

 

* 

 

Tony, does in fact, owe her, and agrees, albeit begrudgingly to help. It takes him approximately half an hour to have the arm removed and Bruce to stitch the wound up, no problems. They don’t ask why he has another prostatic arm lying around, but it was Tony after all, so the question sort of answered itself.  

He looks at the three of them sceptically, eyes narrowed, and Natasha panics for one blood-chilling moment that he’s seen Bucky’s file, seen his marks. But he just raises his eyebrows suggestively at the three of them, leaving Natasha to let a little sigh of relief that Steve furrows his eyebrows at for a moment, before understanding steels his gaze.  

They usher a sleepy, highly drugged up, Bucky into the elevator, and Natasha drops a kiss on Tony's cheek, half in thanks, half in premature apology. She knew it was only a matter of time before he found out, and knew even more that the fallout was going to be devastating when he did. For now, though, they leave freely. 

 

* 

 

They’re back for a week, a sleepy, kiss filled week, in which they all fall perfectly into a functioning set. Both in bed and out.  

None of them are too surprised.  

When the drugs wear off, Bucky’s eyes clear, and he smiles so widely when he sees them both, not that either of them would ever have left his side for the world, that he can’t help himself but surge up and kiss Steve, the same as it always was, sweet, tasting faintly of sugar, and then Natasha straight after, swallowing the surprised little gasp that falls from her lips when he threads his fingers in her hair, her mouth just as sweet, like honey. 

When he pulls away, her smile is brighter than any star he’s ever seen, and she turns to Steve, eyes sparkling mischievously.  

“Well, you have no excuse now, Rogers,” she’s still kneeling on the bed next to Bucky, and he pushes the hair back from her neck to press a small kiss behind her ear. She shivers, leaning back into Bucky ever so slightly. “-talk about shared life experience, huh?” 

Steve grins, and drops his head down to kiss her. 

 

* 

 

After about a week or so of milling about the apartment, exploring each other, Steve pushes himself up on his elbows one early afternoon, the sun catching in his hair and turning it golden, like a halo. He ignores Natasha's whines as she tries to pull his body back down on top of hers to keep her warm, but drops a tender kiss to her hairline. They’d been laying basking in the afterglow, Natasha stretched like a cat under Steve, and Bucky curled around her, hand tracing Steve’s knuckles idly. Steve looks across her from his raised position to where Bucky is looking at him sleepily and pulling Natasha closer into him to replace the warmth for her, and suggests they go for strawberry milkshakes.  

Natasha stops whining and looks at him for a moment, blinking, then laughs, giggles really, surging up to kiss all over his face and neck, calling him an idiot, but rushing out of bed all the same. She’s dragged on her clothes and is waiting for them at the door within seconds, expectant look on her face. 

It turns out, that she can tie the cherry stem into a double knot with her tongue. Steves's not surprised in the slightest when Bucky can too. 

 

* 

They start a pact, any time one of them leaves the country, to send postcards, notes, anything. Natasha’s always arrive with an amateur doodle, Steve’s with a less amateur sketch, and Bucky’s  _with love, always._  


End file.
